The Devil of District 12
by Talyn Crais
Summary: A U Where Katniss and Peeta commit suicide by Nightlock at the end of the 74th hunger games in defiance. A resident of district 12, known to many as The Hunter, finally has enough. Rated M for language, violence and sexual themes.
1. Chapter 1

ATTENTION ATTENTION TRIBUTES, THERE HAS BEEN A SLIGHT...RULE CHANGE...THE PREVIOUS REVISION ALLOWING FOR TWO VICTORS FROM THE SAME DISTRICT HAS BEEN...REVOKED...ONLY ONE VICTOR MAY BE CROWNED, GOOD LUCK.

AND MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR

"Go ahead," Peeta sighs in defeat. "One of us should go home. One of us has to die, they have to have their victor."

"No, they didn't," Katniss declares, jamming her last arrow into the ground and dropping her bow with a metallic clank.

"Why should they?" She goes on, pulling out a handful of nightlock berries from her jacket pocket.

"No!" Peeta gasps, covering her open hand with his, staring at her in disbelief.

"Trust me," she urges, squeezing his hand over hers. "Trust me. Trust me."

"Together?" he asks, staring into her eyes for the final time as she sepperates them into both their hands.

"Together," she agrees, locking his gaze.

"One…" he starts, touching her braid in fondness.

"Two.." she mutters, staring directly into the camera that shes positve is glued to them before sadly looking back to him

"Three."

They both raise their hands and force the berries into their mouths. Barely seconds after they've passed their lips, they begin to choke. Peeta falls to the ground, writhing in agony followed closely by Katniss. She stares into his eyes, watching as the light fades behind them, slowly closing her own as blood begins to run from her nose.

The Hob

Dozens of people filling the room stand in shocked silence, staring at the holographic projector in horror. No one says a word as the camera pans away from the two dead lovers, slowly fading to black. A young man in a brown hood, pulled low to cover his face, tosses back the jar of clear liquid he's drinking before setting it down quietly. He pulls out a small solid gold coin and drops it in the empty jar with a echoing clank. The old man behind the counter goes to pick up the jar, eyes still fixated on the holoscreen when he notices the rattling in the jar. He dumps the coin out into his hand, eyes growing large in their sockets as he searches around the room wildly, but the man in the hood is already gone.

Everdeen household

Mrs. Everdeen, Primrose Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne all sit at a rickety wooden table, staring in horrific silence at the now black projection in shock. Mrs. Everdeen holds her hands to her face, tears streaming down silently as Prim blinks rapidly. Gale stands up, looking from Prim to her mother in dread before walking out of the house and down the road, into the darkening night. Mrs. Everdeen stands up, beginning to sob uncontrollably and runs from the room, entering a bedroom and slamming the door behind her. With a thud, she collapses against it and falls to the floor. Prim stands up, her fluffy cat Buttercup following her as she walks out the front door of the house and collapses on the stairs. Tears begin to fill her eyes as she chokes and begins to weep uncontrollably.

The man in the hood walks along the fence line in the darkness, stepping through a low drooping wire. He stands up, adjusts his hood and walks off into the trees, disappearing into the darkness.


	2. A Promise Made

Days go by. The entire Seam is littered with white leaflets of paper that are dropped daily by the capitol. Bold black lettering shines up from each piece.

TRIBUTES FROM DISTRICT 12 DIE IN COWARDLY ACT OF DEFIANCE. NO WINNER THIS YEAR FOR THE 74TH. WARNING TO ALL DISTRICTS: SUICIDE IN GAMES NOW PUNISHABLE BY FAMILY EXPUNGEMENT.

Off in the distance a school bell rings, the sound of stomping feet echo into the square only to be drowned out by the howling of the mining whistle. Dusty coal covered men trudge out from the elevator after it screeches to a half. Another group of men enter the elevator with grim faces, lights clicking on from their hats as the car descends. Hope has official died with the star crossed lovers.

The men returning from the mines pass a building, stopping to look up at the graffiti painted on the side as a group of Peacekeepers try desperately to scrub it away.. An image of Katniss pin from the games stares back down at them with a single word painted below it.

REMEMBER.

* * *

Night falls on the depressed town, not a person can be found smiling. Primrose Everdeen sits on her porch, doing the same thing shes done for countless nights since the 74th games; crying and thinking of her sister. The man in the hood quietly approaches, noticing the young girl weeping and kneels down beside her.

"What's your name child?" He asks, revealing his voice to be gentle and warm.

The sudden voice startles her as she scoots away a step before turning to look at him.

"Prim...Primrose." she sputters, wiping the tears away from her face.

"Like the flower?" he asks, slowly sitting beside her with his hands raised.

"Yes," she nods. "I know who you are. You're the bad man. The one they call Hunter."

"I am," he admits. "But you aren't scared?"

"No. Everyone speaks about you in whispers. Gale says you're dangerous but Jenny in my class said you brought meat to some of the kids families who died in the games and you live alone out in the woods…"

"Gale is right, but then again so is Jenny," he confirms pulling out a mid sized parcel wrapped in white butchers paper and tied with twine.

"Why do you do it?" she asks, trying to get a look at his face under the hood. "Why do you give up your game when there's barely any food?

"Because," he starts, hesitating and looking down at the parcel in his hands. "I feel i owe them, each and every family. i took their children away out of selfishness, so i could live. Its a debt i can never fully repay, but i will spend my life trying."

"You didn't take them," she whispers quietly. "Snow did. Just like he took my sister and that sweet baker's boy."

"You're too smart for your own good, little one," he chuckles, hood swiveling her direction. A patch of moonlight shines down and for a second, Prim could swear she sees a boys face and a kind smile under that hood before it turns away.

"I wish i could make him pay, make them all pay. All those peacocks in the capitol…" Her eyes begin to well up again as she balls her hands into fists.

He sets the parcel down, hands gently placed on top and below her fists. His hands are large and warm, rough and calloused.

"I promise you, by these two hands, I will make Snow pay for taking your sister."

She turns to face him, hands unclenching.

"How?" she asks in a whisper.

Before he can answer, Mrs. Everdeen opens the door and beckons her inside quickly. The young man lets go of her hands as Prim wipes the tears from her eyes and quietly heads inside. Mrs. Everdeen stays on the porch, staring at the hooded figure before shutting the door and taking a step closer.

"Mrs. Everdeen," he says, picking up the parcel and handing it to her. "For your loss."

"So its true," she whispers, hesitantly taking the parcel. "I have heard rumors about you, feeding the families of tributes lost."

"Even so, i feel it isn't enough," he replies, pulling out an elegant brass key. "It will unlock a house in the Victors Village. I don't know the state it's in, i refuse to ever set foot in it."

"I can't accept this," she gasps, looking down at the key. "Surely Mrs. Mellark would…."

"I tried," he admits, placing the key on top of the parcel and taking a step back. "She refused. Said her son was no victor…..You have to take it. For your daughter's sake."

"The Peacekeepers…" she starts before being cut off mid way.

"They Peacekeepers won't bother you at all. They know whos house that is and are terrified of the owner." He finishes firmly, turning to leave.

"Wait," she calls, ducking into the house before returning with a folded up blanket. "I have something for you."

"You dont…." he tried, only to be shushed as she forces the blanket into his hands.

"Nonsense, it gets pretty cold out there." she urges.

"It does…" he agrees, holding the blanket close and turning away.

"Some of us still remember your name," she calls before he gets to far away. "I remember a little boy who used to laugh and play with my daughters…"

"That boys dead," he growls back without turning around. "The Capitol killed him just like they killed her."

She raises her hands to her face, shocked by his response. Tears begin to leak down her face as he disappears into the night. She turns, taking a breath and drying her eyes before opening the door and calling for Prim.

* * *

The young man in the hood walked through the woods before hesitating. A bright white line of lights was creeping forward along the fence. Two Peacekeepers were patrolling the fence line, checking for gaps in the wire or any sort of breakage. He crept out from his cover, walking loudly enough for the two to hear and began making his way towards them. After a few steps, they spun around, bringing their lights up to illuminate the hooded figure.

"You there! Halt!" they scream, voices glitching through their helmets.

The figure stops, hands disappearing under his cloak and slowly reaching for two long metal knives.

"Don't come any closer," he warns them, voice coming out deep and menacing.

"You are out past curfew, stay where you are and let us see your hands!" they shout, moving closer.

One of the peacekeepers freeze, light shining farther up on the hood to see an assortment of teeth sewn into it.

"Oh shit," the man breathes, static crackling from his helmet. "That's him."

"What? Who?" his companion asks panicking.

"The crazy guy who lives out in the eastern forest. Killed like 30 Peacekeepers in seconds. People say he's more animal than man now."

"It was 40," the man in the hood growls, knives slowly extending through his sleeves and reflecting the light back at them.

"Shit shit shit," the one mutters, slowly backing away.

"Look we don't want any trouble," the second begs. "We just got stuck on sentry duty, we never saw you ok?"

"No, you didnt," he growls, slamming his knives into the lights, shattering them both in a shower of sparks.

The two Peacekeepers drop their weapons, turn around and bolt up the fenceline. The hooded figure pulls the knives back through his sleeves and sheathes them underneath his cloak With a laugh to himself, he picks up the discarded weapons and tucks them into the blanket secured to his chest. After walking a few yards up the line, he ducks underneath the wires and strolls across the field and into the trees.


	3. Daily Life

A few hours later, the hooded figure came to a wall of vines, moving a section of them to the side and stepped through. Inside was a hollowed out dome, the ceiling made up of branches, tangled vines and a heavy layer of foliage almost obscuring the sky. A tanning rack sat off to his right with a large brown hide stretched across the frame. He walked forward, dropping the two rifles on a large workbench with hand forged tools strewn across it. He pulls a large iron ring sticking out from a small mound in the earth, releasing a wave of warmth before stepping inside and letting the hidden door slam shut behind him. Inside is a cave made entirely of rock with wooden beams bracing a crisscrossed wooden pattern. The grey pebbled pattern of a rocky ceiling shows through the gaps. A small crackling fire is lit behind a gnarled iron grate, casting a very faint glow through the makeshift room. The young man takes off his hood, hanging it on a iron peg lodged in the stone. He picks up a small brass music box in the shape of a heart, winding the gear on the bottom before setting it down. With a faint creak, he tilts back the lid and sits down in a worn leather recliner. Soft music fills the hovel, bringing a sad smile to the young man's face as his eyes slowly drift closed.

Days go by, life returning to normal in district 12. Men go to work in the mines, children attend their daily lessons, the few artisans who make a living from their own shops, do as they do.

The building that houses the black market, the hob, is bustling with whispers as the man in the hood silently makes his way through the crowd with a large deer strung across his shoulders. Each passerby takes an added step away, giving the figure plenty of room as he winds through the crowd. He comes to a large blood stained block made of pure oak, turning around and dropping the animal onto its surface. A mountain of a man shoulders his way out of a small curtained off set of wall's, wiping his hands on a blood stained apron around his neck. Big Beorn, he was aptly named.

"Where did you get it?" he boomed, lifting the meat and inspecting it.

"Does it matter?" Came a chuckle from behind the hood.

"Course not, Hunter," Big Beorn laughed, pulling forth a set of butchers knives.

"Several packages," the hunter ordered. "Equal weight if you can manage, heaviest is yours."

"Aye, I can do that," Beorn nodded, almost salivating.

"I need some cure-spice," the hooded figure continued.

"See old Maude," the butcher said pointing with a knife, slicing a few strips and laying them across a square of waxed paper. "Give her these, from my share."

The figure nodded, adjusting the hood and silently slipping off in the direction the butcher pointed. He weaved in and out of the crowd, as if he wasn't even there. He stopped in front of a crippled elderly woman, tangling a length of brown yarn around two plastic looking spikes.

"Whatchu need?" she grunted, barely looking up from her yarn.

"From Beorn," he commented, dropping the package on the small wooden table sitting to her side. She sat the two spools down and slowly unwrapped the paper, inhaling the essence of the meat. Looking around quickly, she folded the paper back together, opening a metal tin and securing it inside.

"And whatchu want?" She asked again, holding onto the tin dearly.

"Cure-spice." he replied flatly.

She moved a dirty cloth off of a crate filled with glass jars, old gnarled fingers gliding over the lids till they grasped one firmly. With a grunt, she lifted it free and held it up between them. Inside was a fine white powder, giving off a distinct hiss as she shook it.

"This beauty here comes the whole way from district 4, " She giggled, eyes twinkling.

"I doubt that very much," the figure muttered from behind his hood. "How'd it make it all the way out here?"

"How do you manage to keep the peacekeepers from taking you in?" She asked grumpily. "I have my ways. Now whatchu got for it?"

With a jingle of metal on metal, he fished inside a small pouch from within his cloak. After a second, he produced two medium sized silver coins, holding them up in a small stack to where the woman could see. Quick as she could manage, she snatched them from his fingers, unstacking them and holding them close to her eye for inspection. When she was satisfied at their validity, she slowly handed him the jar. He stretched out a hand from beneath his cloak, skin finally being exposed. Just as his fingers wrapped around the lid of the jar, the old womans gnarled digits suddenly gripped his wrist. With an unusual show of strength, the old woman pulled the hooded figure towards her, causing him to stumble down to one knee, his face mere inches from hers.

"I know who you are..." she whispered in his ear. A quiet scrape of metal sliding free from a sheath causing her to look down quickly. A short bladed knife had appeared in the figures opposing hand from seemingly nowhere, ready to plunge into the old womans throat. With a slight gasp, she let go of his wrist and scooted away. "Meaning no offence Si….Sir."

Without uttering a single word, he sheathed the knife in its hidden holster and pulled the jar from the old womans grasp. She stared at him in fear as he turned away and melted back into the crowd. Breaking from her terror, she looked down into her lap to see a third silver coin glinting back at her.

The hooded figure slowly scanned the cluster of stalls for the bright white glint of peacekeeper armors. Without seeing any, he turned and made his way towards the louder section of the market. Weaving in and out of the crowd, he came to the bar where he had witnessed the tragic ending to the 74th games.

A young boy stood behind the bar, shoulders barely above the countertop of the bar, running a rag through a glass. He didn't even look up when the figure approached, merely pulled his rag from inside the jar and held it up to the light.

"I need two jars of distill," the figure called to the child with a wave.

"For medical or ya drinking it?" The child asked, stuffing the rag back inside his jar.

"Don't see how that's your business," the figure shot back.

"Price is still the same," the kid shrugged. "Eight silvers."

After a quick jingle, the figure set a stack of coins on the bartop. The kid sighed, sat the jar down and gave the rag a toss before reaching into a wooden crate. With a tug, he pulled out two pint sized jars filled with a unassuming clear liquid, setting them on the bartop before quickly snatching up the coins. He held them up, counting them in the light before nodding to himself and dropping them in his pocket. The child picked up another rag and jar, running the rag around its insides.

The figure in the hood picked up one jar of the liquid, turning the lid off of it in haste before holding it underneath the hood. With a quick inhale, he confirmed the contents of the jar and reclosed it. He snatched up the remaining jar and disappeared both beneath his cloak. As he turned to walk away, a copper coin materialized and shot across the bartop. With a metallic clunk, it bounced once and hopped up into the jar the young boy was just cleaning, leaving an echoing jingle in the air. The old bartender peaked his head up from behind a shelf upon hearing the noise and seeing the hooded figure disappearing into the crowd. Red Faced and glaring, he approached his son and gave him a swift smack to the back of the head, arguing with him and pointing in the direction the hooded figure disappeared.

He made his way back to where Big Beorn was finishing up with his work, large hands delicately tying the woven twine together over the final package. For a second his face wasn't the stern complexion he normally wore, instead there was a delicate smile across it as he beamed down at his handy work. Upon seeing the hood walking towards him, the delicate smile vanished. He picked up the head, looking it over before shaking the horns in his direction.

"It's a shame to waste such a trophy," he grumbled, staring at the animals dead eyes and tapping his finger on the antlers tips. "You sure you don't want to keep it?"

"Cut the horns, do what you will with the head." The hood mumbled, picking up one package of meat and stuffing it beneath his cloak.

Pulling a small bone saw from roll of tools behind him, Big Beorn began to drag the jagged blade across the base of each antler. After a few quick passes, the tines fell away in two pieces. Before the pieces had hit the table, the figures arm lashed out and snatched them up, disappearing them both beneath his cloak as well. The big butcher chuckled at the movement, letting the bonesaw drop back into its place. Suddenly, the mans face paled, stuffing the deer's head quickly beneath the chopping block and shoving a crate in front of the only opening. The hood swiveled in the direction of the man's gaze, catching the sudden flicker of light off of the bright white color of peacekeeper armor.

"Get out of here," Big Beorn grunted, throwing a cloth over the remaining packages of meat in front of him.

The hood swiveled back, the sounds of clinking currency jingling as he did.

"Everdeen, Mellark, Hawthorne, Schoolhouse," came a voice from under the hood, finger pointing at each package before a gold coin flew through the air.

"Yes yes," the butcher grunted, catching the coin. "Get out of here already, before they see me talking to you."

With barely a sound, the hooded figure vanished into the crowd, the brown of its hood and cloak blending in perfectly. In a matter of seconds, a tall, helmeted peacekeeper strutted up to Big Beorn's chopping block. The hooded figure paused in the shadows, fingers gripping around his long knives beneath his cloak and listening intently.

"We've had reports of poaching in the area," a distorted voice crackled out from the helmet. "I've been ordered to inspect your wears."

"Naw theres no need to do that," the burly man drawled out in a heavily accent tone. "I'm just a simple law abiding butcher."

"I **will** inspect your wears," the voice crackled out again, hand reaching down for his sidearm.

"Easy now," Big Beorn sighed, producing the gold coin and laying it on the block. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

The armoured peacekeepers hand inched away from his hip, slowly picking up the gold coin and stared at it. With a visual shrug of its shoulders, it pocketed the coin.

"Everything seems to be in order," his helmet mic crackled. "Carry on."

Beorn let out a breath, straightening up and giving a mock salute as the peacekeeper turned around and continued his slow strut around the crowded area. The big man looked around the crowd, not seeing the hood anywhere and shook his head. At the same time, the hooded figure watched the Peacekeeper walk away, slowly relaxing his own hold on his weapons before turning around and slinking out of the Hob.


End file.
